


ring(s) around the rosie

by quarterdeck



Series: puffinverse [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Insecure Richie Tozier, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Minor Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Pet Names, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, yes i am back at it again with tender eddie do NOT perceive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterdeck/pseuds/quarterdeck
Summary: On God, Eddie swears, going back to carding his hands gently through Richie’s curls.On God, I am going to get this man some self-esteem.-A couple months after Eddie proposes to Richie, he proposes again. And again. And again. And again.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: puffinverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832359
Comments: 52
Kudos: 416





	ring(s) around the rosie

**Author's Note:**

> no i did not call this fic 'puffin fic 2: 2 puffin 2 fic', but i did think about it.

Eddie Kaspbrak is a man who is incandescently happy. 

Operating under this happiness as a consistent state of mind is a new one on him - especially during his amnesiac years, he was never one for extreme emotions either way, drifting vaguely along from day to day with almost nothing to punctuate the all-consuming dullness. It’s for this reason that nobody can blame him for having walked around these last few months somewhat on guard, oscillating between pure joy and wary hesitation, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. There is a funny overlap at play - he also feels as if he has been walking on clouds ever since finding Richie in that Rockland pubhouse and dancing with him under the twinkling fairy lights to the sound of ABBA. When he had held Richie in his arms and asked to marry him. When Richie had cried and told him yes. 

Of course, he had escaped Bangor Hospital from right under the other Losers’ noses in order to do this, and - not being quite as healed as he may have made out - collapsed pretty quickly after the two of them had made their way off the dance floor. Richie likes to joke that it wasn't the blood loss that was at fault, that rather he _swooned over me, Eds, you literally fell for me - get it? Get it Eds?_

(Eddie refuses to let him know that he thinks he’s probably right.) 

So - back to the hospital it had been, and after his shameful readmission, five separate and intense lectures from his friends, a slow recovery, and the eventual signing of discharge papers, he had followed Richie all the way back to his home in Los Angeles, finally whisking the both of them away from Maine for good. They’d stopped over in Chicago briefly to visit Sandy and her recently reconciled girlfriend Kay, but other than that had been settling into domestic bliss experiencing life together in their new home. _Their_ home. 

God. He still can’t believe that. He's just gotten back home from grocery shopping, and even thinking about it to himself now has him tripping over the pavement as he heads back up to the front steps of their house.Their house, their house, their house. Theirs. 

Eddie has become a big fan of possessive pronouns lately. Their house, their car, his man, _oh, have you met my Richie?,_ my fiancé, his fiancé. His fiancé! (Their puffin, Sweetheart). As a child, Eddie had always been a jealous little thing, tiny scrappy body always puffing up and experimenting with what new decibel levels he could reach with his voice in order to regain Richie’s attention when it had drifted off of him for any unacceptably long period of time. Bill had made fun of him at lunch the other day for it, when they had been idly talking about one of his books being adapted into a limited-time series and Eddie had responded to some name or other with _Oh yeah, I think my fiancé mentioned that they’re good people_ and Bill had laughed so hard he’d snorted water out of his nose, saying _Jesus, Eds, I know who Richie is!_

Well whatever. Eddie had pouted, but Bill doesn’t understand, because he’s not the one who gets to wake up next to Richie every morning, the man brushing his sleep-made curls out of his face and swooping down to press a soft kiss against his nose, eagerly acquiescing to Eddie’s outstretched grabby hands with a firm press of their mouths before rolling out to put on some coffee for the both of them. What a sad life to not wake up next to Richie. What a sad, sad life to be Bill. 

But anyways, yes - he’s gone so stupid over these thoughts that he falls up the stairs to their house while trying to lug up their groceries ( _their_ groceries). He lets out an involuntary shriek at the fall, and then grumbles a bit to himself, swiping off loose gravel from his knees and trying to stand back up while at the same time making sure that all of their purchases survived intact, when a familiarly big hand attached to a body he hadn’t heard coming reaches out to steady him. 

“You know, Eds,” the voice says to him, “You don’t need to make such a big production of getting back from the grocery store just to get my attention. I’m always watching you, baby, you know that. No need for all this drama.” 

Lifting his head to glance back up at Richie, Eddie had been planning to say something along the lines of _Bit rich coming a man who would shrivel up and die if I withheld even a microscopic amount of attention,_ or _Now try that again and this time try to sound less creepy about it_ , but he’s rendered silent by the sight that greets him. Richie’s head is backlit by the warm afternoon sun, the golden glow catching in his curls, and his grin is soft and easy where he looks down as Eddie, hand outstretched. It’s such a welcome change from the twitchy and browbeaten Richie of the infamous Gay/Lesbian Thelma and Louise-esque Solidarity Road Trip of Sadness (GLTLSRTS - a truly stupid acronym, so named by the two morons whilst lighting up together in Chicago) era that Eddie is struck again by just how lucky they are to be here now. How lucky he is.

 _Marry me,_ Eddie thinks at him dizzily, even though he’s already asked him once and been accepted. His mouth parts to put expression to this stupid thought, but he shuts it down just as quickly.

Being in this brand new relationship with the love of his life, Eddie has found himself struggling to find a balance between expression and action. During his amnesiac years, he had never been one for gentle words or tender touch, the sudden and violent tearing of his best friends away from him turning him angry and cold without his notice. But that was never his natural state, and Eddie has had to keep reminding himself of this fact as he struggles to reconnect with that old, lost part of himself while at the same time navigating these newly-formed relationships with his friends. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still fear becoming like his mother. Like Myra. Scarily overbearing. Smothering. 

Eddie doesn’t want to suffocate Richie with his love. But he _does_ want some help up, so he quashes his desire to propose all over again and reaches up to grab on to Richie’s bigger hand, allowing himself to be tugged up and into his arms. Richie smacks a kiss onto his forehead, and releases him so that the two of them can head inside to get everything sorted. 

Today, Richie and him are meeting the other losers (and Patty, who may as well be one at this point) at a park downtown for an afternoon picnic while the weather still permits it. That’s what today’s shopping was for - him and Richie have been put on food duty (this is all down to Richie’s culinary abilities; Eddie has none), while drinks and assorted cutlery fell on the others in their respective pairs. Eddie had offered to go out to get everything from the shops, partly in guilt for being functionally useless at food prep, and partly because he knew that he’d only distract Richie staying home, and they really did need to show up on time for once in their lives. The relentless ribbing they get otherwise is unbearable. 

“How was shopping?” Richie asks from where he stands at the counter, slicing ingredients for the sandwiches with his back turned. Eddie has seated himself at the kitchen island, head in his hand, and watches him idly.

“Loud and crowded,” Eddie says, “Hope I got everything you needed, though. You couldn’t pay me to go back out there again.”

“Maybe not in money,” Richie turns around with a leer, and Eddie chucks a bread roll at his head. Richie only laughs, but finishes up making the sandwiches with breadcrumbs still flecked in his hair.

Like he'd said - distraction. God, they're going to be late, _again_.

**1**

By the time they get to the park, everybody else is already there. The others all give them as hard of a time as expected for it, but Eddie has made peace with the fact on the ride over and just shrugs. They can hardly start without the people bringing the food, _Stanley_ , so lay off maybe. Stan and Patty bring the wine out of their cooler, and Ben and Bev lay out the cutlery on the blankets that Mike and Bill have brought. The two of them bicker back and forth as Richie begins to lay out all of the food, but it’s not long before everybody is settled in comfortably.

It’s nice to have everybody together like this - embarrassingly enough, it had only taken a couple of months after Richie’s return and Eddie’s release from the hospital that all of the losers who didn’t already live there made their way to settle in California, their collective codependency making its belated and triumphant return twenty-two years later.

Richie’s head is pillowed on Eddie’s thigh where his legs are crossed, and he’s combing his fingers through his hair as they all catch up. Richie and Bill are discussing the podcast they’ve started to write together, and Richie has just cracked a particularly crass joke, which sticks out in Eddie's memory as the catalyst that jumpstarts the whole thing.

“Christ. How in the world did you ever get _Eddie_ to agree to marry you?” Bill asks with a laugh.

He clearly means it as a joke, and Richie laughs back with a shrug, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes and Eddie’s brow furrows in indignation, seeing Stan go still out of the corner of his eye. And it’s - obviously it's meant lightly, but it’s such fucking _bullshit,_ the running joke that Richie is some kind of insufferable moron that Eddie is forced to put up with on a daily basis. Obviously none of them ever mean it, and it's just one part of the ribbing they all give each other when it comes up in the end, but _still_. There’s no appreciation here for the amount of work Eddie has put in just for want of this man. Eddie javelined an alien monster clown, he came back from the dead, he tracked Richie down all over the state of _Maine_ to find him and ask for his hand in marriage. And Eddie was lucky enough to get a yes in return. Lucky!

Richie is sweet and funny and handsome, and Eddie is starting to get the sense that he hasn’t nearly communicated these facts enough. Maybe his earlier fears over smothering Richie were unfounded after all; perhaps he’s only done Richie more harm than good in his caution. An unacceptable possibility for a man who has made the stewardship of Richie’s well-being his personal responsibility since the age of six.

“Hell if I know, Billy. Ask myself that every day.” Richie answers back grinning, and Eddie’s hand tightens in his hair unconsciously. Richie yelps at this, and Stan opens his mouth to say something, but Eddie beats him to it.

“Hey!” Eddie says indignantly. “ _I_ was the one who found Richie and asked him to marry _me_ ; if anything it was me that had to convince _him!_ ” 

Stan nods in agreement (dick, but he appreciates the solidarity); while the others simply laugh. Bill holds up his hands placatingly, familiar enough with Eddie’s sudden fits of rage. 

“Sure, sure,” Bill says easily with a grin. “But blink twice if this is a call for help.” 

Eddie launches a half an orange at Bill’s head (“I’m not the one who’s going to need to _call for help_ you goddamn idiot.”) and Richie cheers, tugging Eddie’s face down to press a kiss to his lips. By all accounts this should be the end of the issue, _but_. The problem is that Eddie can tell what Richie really thinks behind all of the bluster and joking: that his marriage proposal was some sort of desperate attempt to get him to stay in one place, that it wasn’t properly thought through and if acted on would turn swiftly into a regret. He can see this in the genuine agreement in Richie’s face when their friends joke about Eddie’s long-sufferance, how he’s more than once offered to let theirs be a long engagement if Eddie wants that (“I wouldn’t go anywhere, Eds, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m your barnacle now, baby.”) and Eddie can’t think how to possibly convey to Richie that if anything, his marriage proposal was a selfish venture. He doesn’t want to ever be without Richie again; never wants to go a single day without hearing his voice or feeling his strong and gentle hands or shrieking in laughter over his jokes. Eddie didn’t ask Richie to marry him for _Richie’s_ sake; he asked him because he thinks he’ll die for real this time if he doesn’t get to call Richie _his_ in all senses. He wants that man emotionally, physically, _legally._ Fuck you, Bill. 

And so, in the end, this picnic is what cements it for Eddie. He’s going to show Richie that this myth of his exhausted toleration is the furthest thing possible from the truth of the matter. He doesn’t know how just yet, but he will. 

_On God,_ Eddie swears, going back to carding his hands gently through Richie’s curls. _On_ _God, I am going to get this man some self-esteem_.

While the others carry on talking, Eddie tunes them all out to consider how he ought to go about communicating all of this to Richie. Reassuring words alone clearly won’t do it, and Eddie isn’t willing to wait until their actual wedding day for Richie to believe him. He’s a man of action more than words; always has been. Eddie cards one hand through Richie’s hair, while the right one absentmindedly tears out tufts of grass from the ground beneath the blanket. When his fingers come away having plucked a couple of small buttercups amongst the grass, it comes to him like a flash of lightning.

He knows how he can show Richie that he’ll never change his mind about wanting to marry him. He’ll just - continue to propose until the message sticks. 

Eddie takes his hand out of Richie’s hair to tie the flowers together, same mechanics as the daisy chains they used to make as kids. Eddie notices Stan watching him quietly from across the checked blanket, and grins up at him conspiratorially. When he’s got it all put together to his satisfaction, he taps the side of Richie’s face still pillowed on his thigh until the man opens his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Spaghetti?” Richie asks gamefully, “I am at your beck and call. Your wish is my command.” He bobbles his head like Jeannie and Stan snorts at the attempt. 

Eddie smiles down at him, and stretches an arm out to pick up his left hand where it had been resting linked together with his right one on his stomach. He holds the buttercup ring poised over Richie’s ring finger and waits a second to appreciate the slow widening of Richie’s eyes before asking -

“Marry me?” 

Richie laughs happily, clearly appreciating the joke, but the laughter trails off once he realizes that Eddie is still patiently waiting for an answer. When it actually strikes him that this is a genuine question, his cheeks blush pink and his grin turns shy but pleased. 

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie answers softly, “I’ll marry you.” 

Eddie grins, slipping the daisy ring onto Richie’s finger and pulls his hand up to kiss his knuckles one by one. Such a romantic display may ordinarily have embarrassed him, but Eddie’s here to prove a point to everyone, and the point is that he’ll never again be made ashamed to love Richie Tozier. 

Bev and Patty cheer, Ben and Mike grin, Bill rolls his eyes, and Stan nods approvingly at Eddie, but he doesn’t hear any of it. He’s got other things to look at right now. 

**2**

Panting out laboured breaths, and sweat dripping down his face from his afternoon run, Eddie steps into the house, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his jacket. He pulls his shirt off to mop at the sweat on his forehead and drapes it over his shoulder like a towel, positively aching for a shower. But the house smells warm and fragrant, the scent and sounds of Richie cooking in the kitchen wafting over to the front door, and he can’t help but make his way over there first. 

“Hey Richie,” he calls out toward the source of the noise, “I’m back.”

“Hey baby!” Richie calls back, “Hope you’re feeling cannibalistic tonight!”

At this Eddie blinks in surprise (and sudden dread), heading more warily now into the kitchen where he can hear the clanking of pots and pans. It's a good system the two of them have in place, where Richie does most of the cooking (which Eddie would burn, destroy, or otherwise ruin in an instant), while Eddie handles all of the clean up (which Richie would rather die than do - when he bothers to notice the mess at all). Knowing this, and accepting that in all fairness he will be the one responsible for whatever horror has befallen the kitchen, with an opening line like that he can’t even begin to guess what he'll be walking in on.

Oh _, ugh_. Of course. He should’ve known it’d be - 

“Spaghetti!” Richie exclaims happily, hands flying up in the air, a rogue noodle launched into the wall, where it sticks as if painted there. Eddie looks at it, unimpressed.

Richie looks over his shoulder too and shrugs. “Huh. Guess that means they’re done cooking, then.” 

Eddie closes his eyes. “That’s not - come on. Even _I_ know that that’s not true. All it means is that the noodles aren’t dry.”

“Au contraire, mon petit Spaghetti-monster.” Richie says airily, flicking noodle after shameless noodle onto the wall where together they begin to form some sort of Jackson Pollock painting, “As a five-star Michelin chef, I can assure you zat ze spaghetti wall trick eez entirely legitimate.” 

Eddie squints at him. 

“I can’t actually tell if you’re fucking with me,” he says finally, “and that’s like - you need to tell me. Whether or not you believe what you’re saying right now so I know how disappointed to be in you. And stop wasting all the goddamn spaghetti, for fucks sake, what are we supposed to eat?”

Richie simply raises an eyebrow, staring Eddie right in the eye and flinging yet another noodle toward the wall in defiance. 

“Okay, that’s it.” Eddie says, and scooping his own hand into the bowl, launches forward to sprinkle an entire fistful of noodles down onto his fiancé’s head. Richie splutters with shocked laughter, holding tight to Eddie’s waist as his own hand gravitates back towards the bowl. Eddie wiggles in his grip, but to no avail - the next handful goes down the back of his own shirt. He shrieks at the gross sensation, and Richie doubles over at the sound, laughing too hard to continue to keep holding him captive. Eddie takes the opportunity to reach into the bowl once more, but reconsiders his plans to stuff them down Richie’s pants as he stares down at his cackling fiancé. 

“Hey Richie,” Eddie says, bending down beside him through his own laughter, and waiting for him to look up before tying the ends of the wet spaghetti noodle together and holding it out to Richie, “Marry me?”

Richie’s laughter dies down slowly, and his eyes turn soft and warm where they meet Eddie’s. When he sees the wet spaghetti noodle that is being offered to him, he bursts out into giggles once more, but admirably reins it in when he sees that Eddie is still patiently waiting for an answer, despite the rapid (and uncomfortable) sensation of cooling noodle in his hand. Riche holds out his hand.

“Yeah, Eds,” he says, slipping the noodle onto his ring finger, “I’ll marry you. And I’ll even order the both of us some takeout, at that.” 

**3**

“Eddie,” Bev says, “If all you’re going to do is distract Richie while I’m trying to fit him _two days_ before he needs this suit done, I am going to kick you out of my studio.”

Eddie sniffs at this, enraged at the injustice, while Richie boos from where he stands poised on the small round podium in front of the mirrored wall in Bev’s New York studio.

Though her and Ben had moved out to California along with everybody else and moved the primary location of her company's headquarters along with them, her company was still doing well enough - even better, actually, after her divorce from her ex-husband, - that they continued to operate a location out of New York as well. That studio is where the three of them are now, having flown out together after some representatives from SNL had contacted Richie’s new manager with a request for an emergency fill-in after the host they had lined up for this week got laryngitis and had to cancel. He’d accepted, of course, but he doesn’t get the typical week ahead to prepare - the showrunners are banking heavily on his well-known improv abilities and Eddie personally has no doubt it’ll work out fine. The _real_ emergency was the fact that Eddie had quickly realized that the only good suit Richie owns is the maroon one Sandy had acquired for him that day at the restaurant; and that one Richie absolutely refuses to _ruin with sweat and dirt, Eds - that is our first kiss suit!_ Cue panicked calls to Bev, who - bless her - had agreed to come out and whip something up last minute for him.

But just because they’re here and they're in her debt doesn’t mean the two of them have been any help whatsoever to the sanctity of the process. Every time Bev sticks a pin in the fabric draped over him, for example, Richie strikes a new pose and Eddie holds up his fingers behind him in the mirror, rating him on his choice. 

Pin. Pose. “Terrible face acting. 0/10. If I were SNL, I would fire you for this."

Pin. Pose. “7/10. I appreciate the raw emotion that is conveyed with the cocked hip.” 

Pin. Pose. “Hmm. 5/10, but only because you hesitated on the raised eyebrow.”

Pin. Pose - “Eddie, I _swear to god_ if you keep enabling him I’m going to launch you out this window.”

Eddie holds up his hands in a disappointed zero at Bev, who glares at him - an impressive display with impressive volume, given that her mouth is full of pins. She sighs, and drops the pins into the palm of her hand, beckoning Eddie over and dumping some tangled spools of thread into his hands.

“Make yourself useful and start untangling these for me, please.” she tells him, “I’m going to need that dark green here soon.” 

Richie grimaces sympathetically at him from the mirror, hands raised in a respectful salute to his imminent labour, and Eddie takes himself and the thread over to an empty work table to begin the process of untangling. It’s quite soothing work, actually, and he doesn’t really mind being exiled from the tailoring process to help Bev with it. It’s when he starts on the red spool that his mind goes to an old story Bill had told them down in the clubhouse one day. Richie had always been an avid reader, but Mike and Bill were the biggest into folklore and mythology, and Stan had sat down there one winter day repairing an old cardigan that had gotten torn through a confrontation with one of older boys who’d liked to torment them, needle and red thread in hand. The Red String of Fate, Bill had said, and if Eddie remembers correctly it had something to do with the red string tied to your finger being attached at the other end to that of your soulmate. He quietly snips off a piece, tying it to his finger, and tunes back in to whatever Bev and Richie are talking about across the room.

“There,” Bev says, satisfied, “I’m liking this fit. You’ll be the star of the show, and not just because you’re the host.”

Richie stretches around, looking backwards to check himself out in the mirror. “Think it looks good enough to distract them from however I’ll fuck it up on stage?”

Eddie snorts from where he sits bent over the work table. “You’re so far beyond SNL, dude. Anything you do is only going to make it better, trust me.”

Richie beams at him, and Bev rolls her eyes, gathering up loose materials. “Alright, I need to go get some measuring tapes. _You_ ,” she points to Richie, “do not move. And _you,_ ” she points to Eddie, “do not _make_ him move.”

Eddie and Richie both blink at her innocently, and she huffs out a suspicious snort at them, clearly not trusting them as far as she can throw them, turning on her heel to grab materials from whatever workroom she’d left them in. Eddie waits a second to line up for her the now neatly organized spools, before making his way over to where Richie stands as still as a statue, or perhaps a particularly well-behaved dog, in front of the mirrors. His eyes meet Eddie’s in the reflection, as Eddie comes up behind him, smoothing his hands over the soft, taught fabric stretched across his shoulders. 

“What do you think, Eds?” he asks quietly now, more sincerely than his jokes before, “Ten out of ten?” Eddie hums consideringly, hands coming down to smooth across his sides, even as Richie casts furtive glances toward the door Bev had just exited through. 

“ _Eleven_ out of ten,” Eddie determines, pressing his lips to the side of Richie’s neck. “Have you seen your shoulders?” 

The clack of Bev’s heels become audible down the hallway, and Eddie quickly reaches around to tie the second red string hidden in his pocket around Richie’s ring finger. Richie looks down, confused at the gesture.

“Hey Rich,” Eddie murmurs to regain his attention, looking at Richie through the mirror’s reflection, “Marry me?”

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie responds, goofy grin spreading across his face, and stumbling around off the podium to press their lips together, “Yeah, I’ll marry you.”

And the two of them are wrapped up in each other that they forget to separate before Bev comes back in, incandescent rage painted across her face at the rumpled sight of Richie’s pinned fabric. 

**4**

A sudden cold draft has Eddie groaning beneath the blankets, body curling up into a little ball and shuffling over to seek Richie’s often furnace-temperature body heat. When shuffling all over the bed doesn’t yield any fiancé, he cracks a grumpy eye open to investigate why, and spots Richie stumbling over to the ensuite bathroom, quietly so as not to wake Eddie up. The red glow of the digital clock on the lefthand bedside table reads 4:31am, and right as Richie goes to close the door behind him, Eddie smothers a grin into his pillow. It’s the middle of the night, yes, but he suddenly wants nothing more than to rile his fiancé up. 

“ ‘ts the point of closing the door?” Eddie sleepily calls out to him. “Waste of time.”

Richie stumbles, stopping in his tracks to turn a scandalized look over at Eddie, his surprise at Eddie being awake overshadowed only by his outrage at the audacity of the statement. Bingo. “Because _Edward_ , you are my - _beloved_ . My _intended._ My _betrothed_. I - listen to me - I categorically refuse to pee in front of you and kill the romance so quickly like that.”

Richie turns around with an offended little sniff to continue to the bathroom, clearly communicating his desire for this conversation to be over.

“Whatever!” Eddie sing-songs back, “It’s not like I haven’t seen you pee before! Can’t change that!”

“It’s different every time!” Richie calls back, outraged, and slams the bathroom door shut. Eddie waits a moment to let Richie think he’s off the hook before calling back out to him.

“I can hear you!” 

“ _No!”_ Richie shouts back, “No - Eddie, play some music! _Put some music on Eddie!_ ”

“No!” Eddie calls back, laughing so hard that his stomach hurts. Richie begins to sing himself over the sounds of the bathroom, something that sounded like a sad attempt at Prince.

Eddie is often wildly charmed by this, the dichotomy between Richie’s dearly-valued and deeply-held intangible notions on proper romance versus Eddie’s own corporeal and rather fleshy ones. It’s the sweetest thing. Decades of yearning for a love that he didn’t believe he would ever be allowed to have had developed in Richie the desire to express this fathomless love in all of the classic, romantic ways, noted painstakingly from all of the cultural cornerstones of romance - films, books, television, etcetera. And being raised by Went and Maggie, who had never hesitated to tell Richie how loved he was, how proud they were of him, how funny they thought he was had been such a stark contrast to Sonia Kaspbrak's cold and cruelly disapproving methods of parenting that Richie ached to change that for him. Being denied the ability to express so much for so long had so strongly bottled the need to up in Richie that his chest was practically fit to burst with it. So: Richie won’t pee with the door open, will pick up flowers for him out of the blue, set up a blanket on the grass in the backyard so that they can star-gaze together, pull out his chair at restaurants and light up candles around their dinner table. Gestures so earnest that they often hurt Eddie’s heart. 

To Eddie, whose life had been characterized by the unconsenting delineation of his own body as a warzone, a place of sickness and rot to be disgusted by and rejecting of, expressed his fathomless love for Richie by worshipping the altar that was _his_ body. There could never be any bit of Richie, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, that Eddie would be disgusted by, and it was absolutely crucial to him that Richie know this. When Richie thoughtfully offers to shower off the sweat before getting into bed after an exhausting day, to brush his teeth before kissing in the morning, to change out of his two-day old shirt, to buy Eddie his own food rather than share, Eddie makes sure to pull him forward and kiss the insecurity right out of his mouth, through his teeth and between his lips. Eddie will rub his migrained temples, fix his hair before pushing him out the door, protectively cup the crown of his head when opening kitchen cupboards, wash off a spot of dirt on his cheekbone from the garden with a clean rag soaked from the hose. Anything he could do to physically show that he was in this for life, that he wanted so badly to be with him that it had become a need. 

And so Eddie, who had spent almost forty years of his life obsessively cataloguing and studying every last inch of his body like a machine that needed to be regularly updated and tended to in order to maintain satisfactory optimal function, had an endless and boundless fascination with the landscape that was Richie’s body for completely different reasons. And honestly, he doesn’t fucking care if that’s weird. He’d gladly count all of Richie’s freckles and moles, scratch his fingers gently through Richie’s coarse leg hair, push his nose into the musk of Richie’s armpit while lying on the couch. And, with Richie’s permission, he’ll do it for the rest of his life. 

But still. Their continuous little tête-à-tête _was_ fun; these fruitless attempts to each make the other break first. 

It is this thought that has Eddie sitting up with a yawn, rubbing his hands across his eyes and reaching into the bedside drawer to pull out some little fabric scissors and cut a neat strip of fabric off of the bottom of his sleep shirt, some old marathon relic from years ago. When Richie shuffles back into the bedroom, flicking the bathroom light off on his way and cold feet pressed immediately into Eddie’s calves, he reaches over to tie it neatly around his ring finger.

“Hey Richie,” Eddie whispers, something about the darkness of the room that forbids him from breaking it with high volume. “Marry me?” 

Richie doesn’t even open his eyes; just rolls over with a smile and presses his nose into Eddie’s neck.

“Yeah, Eds,” he murmurs sleepily, “I’ll marry you.”

**5**

Richie is busy out planting flowers in their garden, and Eddie is a man on a mission. 

“I need a favour.” Eddie says quickly into the phone. “And I only have five minutes until Richie comes in from the garden, so I need you to not ask any questions.”

Mike is only quiet for as long as it usually takes someone to decode Eddie’s rapidfire speech before he’s saying, “Of course. What is it?”

And even though Eddie had just told him he’s on a time crunch, he takes a second to fully experience the sudden rush of fondness for Mike and his unquestioning willingness to do something for his friends. Back in Derry, he hadn’t ever questioned Eddie’s reason behind coming over to help at the Hanlon farm during lambing season; simply handing him some disposable gloves and a baby bottle so that the two of them could get to work. Now, it's inexplicable phone calls and unquestioning favours. 

“I know you and Bill are going back to Derry to pack up the rest of your shit, and I need you to pick something up for me while you’re there.” Eddie says quickly, “Uh - please.”

“Like… at the pharmacy?” Mike asks, confused, “Because I’m sure that whatever you need from there would also be available at any-”

“ _No,_ not from the pharmacy,” Eddie hisses, shooting glances toward the door to make sure that Richie was remaining put, “Why the fuck would I want anything from Keene's? I need you - or Bill I guess - to uh. Tochopsomewoodoffofthekissingbridgeforme.” 

_Now_ there’s a more noticeable period of silence. 

“You need me to chop some wood,” Mike repeats slowly, “off of the Kissing Bridge. Right. Uh -”

“I thought we agreed no questions!” Eddie hisses again, peeking outside the window. 

“That wasn’t a question!” Mike exclaims back, laughing, “But you know, I’m also sure that _wood_ is available at any local hardware store. Or just go out and find a tree, Eddie.”

“You don’t _understand_ ," Eddie groans, "Please just do this for me. No questions. I will explain everything at a later date.”

“I sure don’t,” Mike says, still laughing, “But sure, okay. Why not. And how much wood do you need for your mysterious project? If I may be permitted to ask this.”

“Uhhhh. Like a square?” Eddie guesses, squinting at the wall with his index fingers and thumbs held out, trying to estimate. “Not much. Maybe two squares to be safe?

“Sure, sure,” Mike agrees, “And how am I supposed to do this without being noticed? Unless you think me walking up to the bridge with a _handsaw_ in broad daylight will go unquestioned -”

“So do it in the middle of the night!” Eddie says, throwing his arms up, “Or actually wait, just make Bill do it. I’m still pissed at him for being the catalyst of my wild goose chase for Richie around Maine. I don’t care if he gets caught vandalizing Derry.” 

Mike snorts, audibly shifting the phone to his other ear. “Fine. I’ll tell Bill that you’ve finally come up with an appropriate method of atonement. Hand-sawing public property in broad daylight and four Hail Mary's. You’ll have your mysterious wood by next week; we’re not staying in Derry any longer than we need to.”

Eddie breathes out a sigh of relief. “ _Thank you,_ Mike. I’ll let you know w-”

“ _EDDIE!”_ Eddie hears Richie shout from the door to the backyard, and he jumps so high he looks like a startled cat. Mike laughs at his little yelp from the other end of the phone, and Eddie briefly considers switching to facetime so he can throw him the finger, but his attention is redirected back towards Richie’s distress before he can. 

“Eddie, I’m a fucking _monster!_ ” Richie wails, hurtling into the living room and brandishing a swollen hand in his face. Eddie swears and refrains from instinctively batting it out of the way, instead gently taking hold of it and pulling it down to take a look. There are three upraised welts - bee stings, obviously, - scattered across the side of his palm. Eddie makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, and leans down to brush a few kisses to the inflamed skin. Richie’s eyes are wet, but he sniffs manfully and looks away, ostensibly to retain some semblance of dignity. Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“I’m a _monster_ , Eds,” he repeats in a sad whisper, “ _Three_ bees are now dead because of me.”

“Alright, I’m gonna have to let you go Mike,” Eddie says into the phone, “It looks like somebody is going to need some children’s benadryl. And therapy.” 

Mike laughs. “That’s fine, Bill should be home any minute anyway. Tell Richie I hope he feels better. And I’ll let you know how the recovery mission goes.” 

"Recovery mission for what?" Richie sniffs.

"The boot that I will one day lodge up Bill's ass," Eddie replies absently. He hangs up the phone to the sound of Mike's laughter, slipping it back into his pockets, and leads Richie into the kitchen by his good hand. Pushing him down to sit at the kitchen island, he rummages around in their cabinets for some hydrocortisone cream and children’s Benadryl, Richie moaning pitifully behind him. Eddie reaches for an ice-pack that he chucks at Richie to keep pressed against his welts hand until he’s got everything prepared. 

“How did this even happen, anyway?” Eddie asks him, “Weren’t just supposed to be planting poppies? That doesn’t typically involve making an enemy of things that will sting you.” 

Richie sniffs again, peeking underneath the ice-pack to take a look at his hand. Eddie swats his hand away, and lifts it himself to spread the hydrocortisone gently onto the welts. “I was, but they were crawling around in the dirt, and _then_ they crawled onto my hands and it was so cute. I was going to take a picture for you but then I guess I moved too fast and it startled them. And now they’re _dead._ ”

Eddie keeps a straight face as he pours the medicine into the little measuring cup and lifts it to Richie’s mouth. “But they didn’t die in vain. May their memory live on in our garden. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, bumblebees to fertilizer.” Richie glares at him, but the effect is somewhat mitigated by the sheen of purple medicine that clings to his lips and has him going cross-eyed trying to lick off.

Eddie just laughs.

“Come on, killer,” he says fondly, tugging Richie to his feet and walking them over to the couch where he curls up and pats his lap to indicate where his head should go. “Get comfortable. You’re going to be knocked out by the medicine in a minute.”

Richie grumbles, but collapses down onto the couch and Eddie’s lap to settle in for the long haul. Eddie grabs their knitted throw blanket (a gift from Went and Maggie) to spread out over Richie back, and starts flicking through channels to find a quiet movie to put on in the background.

“ s’not fair,” Richie mumbles, “ _Any_ medicine knocks me out. It doesn’t even make any sense. Look at the _size_ of me.”

“Low tolerance,” says Eddie smugly, and then appreciatively - “and trust me, I’m _looking_.” 

Richie huffs a laugh and wiggles his head closer into Eddie’s stomach. “Should be you that gets sleepy. Tiny, tiny little thing.” 

Eddie flicks his forehead, and then soothes it with a stroke when Richie pouts. “Should have developed an undiagnosed pill addiction due to trauma, then, sucker. Then your tolerance would be better. Didn’t analyze _that_ risk, bitch.”

Richie laughs at Eddie’s impression of him, but frowns when the jostling means that the bun in his hair doesn’t allow him to settle his head anywhere comfortably after he’s already gone and moved. He’s been growing his hair out these past few months after a throwaway comment from Eddie about how much he likes the feel of it, and throwing it up in a bun when doing yard work or going out to the store. Eddie unties the scrunchie for him now, brushing out tangles with his fingers, and loops the scrunchie around his finger a few times until it’s circumference is smaller. 

“Hey Richie,” Eddie murmurs, as the relieved pressure from Richie’s head has him sinking happily into the drowsiness he’s been fighting. Eddie picks up Richie’s hand, and holds out the scrunchie. “Marry me?”

Richie’s smile is sweet and content, and he makes sure to get his answer out before sleep takes him completely. “Yead, Eds. ‘ll marry you.”

**6**

**Mike | 2m ago:** _The bird is in the nest; I repeat, the bird is in the nest._

Eddie furrows his brow in confusion as his phone buzzes. He’s just gotten out of the shower, and has no goddamn idea what Mike is talking about

 **Eddie:** _wtf?_

 **Eddie:** _Did you mean to send this to stan_

 **Mike:** 🙄 _I dropped off your mysterious kissing bridge wood to your porch._

 **Mike:** _You’re welcome_

 **Eddie:** _Oh, thanks!_

“Rich,” Eddie calls as he makes his way down the stairs and turns into the hall, “I’m going out to work in the shop, honey. Let me know when dinner’s done, and I’ll come in.”

The ‘shop’ in question is, in reality, just the large two-car garage that Richie had cleaned out as a surprise for Eddie when he moved in, converting it into a mechanic’s slash carpentry workspace. This surprise was nice enough on its own, but Eddie had actually been brought to tears by the shining glory of it all: the old broken down 1958 Chevy Corvette Convertible in cherry red that Richie had purchased for Eddie to fix up, remembering that that had been his dream car as a little kid flipping through his dad’s old auto magazines. Mentally he checklists whether he has everything he needs the shop already for this specific project. Wood, drill press, vice clamps, dremel, belt sander. Check, check, check.

Richie tilts his head backwards so that he’s looking at Eddie upside-down over the back of the couch, pouting, and Eddie watches him fondly as his glasses threaten to slip off down his forehead to the floor. He strides over with a huff of laughter to poke them back up by the bridge of the nose, and bends down at the knees to press a kiss to his forehead. 

“Bad form, Eds,” Richie complains in a loose impression of Captain Hook, “Going out to work in the shop while I’m busy making dinner and you _know_ the only worthwhile part of my day is watching you get all sweaty-muscled and greasy.”

Eddie laughs, still bent at the knees to stroke his thumbs down Richie’s cheek where he has his face cupped. “I feel weird hearing that from Captain Hook, but I’m not working on the car today, so you're in luck, you big baby. No grease on or muscles out, cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Never that,” Richie murmurs, puckering his lips out in a silent request for another kiss. Eddie acquiesces, kissing him slow and deep, his thumbs still stroking circles into Richie’s cheekbones. When their lips part, Richie’s eyes are dilated and unfocused, still half-closed. 

“Let me know when dinner’s ready,” Eddie repeats in a murmur, lips still close enough to brush Richie’s, before he puts his hands on his knees to push himself back up into standing and makes his way over to the door.

“Yes, dear!” Richie calls, “Go out to work in the shop you big, strong man, and I’ll toil here in the kitchen. God - wait. Am I the woman in this relationship?"

“We’re gay, you moron,” Eddie calls back, “the whole point is that neither of us are the woman!”

“Okay,” Richie agrees easily, “But will you still carry me over the threshold, though?”

This had clearly been what he had working toward all along. Eddie just smiles, pulling a rubber band out of his pocket to tie it up into increasingly smaller circles until it becomes the perfect size to fit his fiancé, pulling it through his fingers and snapping it over to Richie.

“Only if you marry me!” he calls over his shoulder with a smile, and it’s Richie’s affirmative answer still ringing in his ears that accompanies him on his way out the door.

**7**

The distant fog and shimmering glow off the water of the little coastal town may have been a welcoming, even beautiful sight to anybody else, but Eddie is willing to extend some empathy with Richie’s unwillingness to be here. He wouldn’t even have brought them both back here if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but the final step of his plan requires them to be in Rockland, and he knows that Richie won’t regret it in the end. If they can make it there.

“I just wish you’d tell me why the fuck we’re back in _Maine,_ ” Richie says mulishly, “Because I love you and all, but my skin is crawling.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but there is some truth to what Richie is saying and he _does_ appreciate that he got on a plane with him no questions asked, so he rubs a hand up and down his arm and hums sympathetically. The two of them are seated in the back of an Uber, and even that small bit of contact feels brave given their history. It may be twenty-two years later, but some habits are hard to break. The shops blur past them out the window as they get closer to their destination, and Eddie decides that Richie deserves a bit of a hint after everything he’s been put through. 

“I get it. I don’t really love being here, either. But Richie,” he says grandly, with a big sigh, “Our _child_ is here. And responsible parents make decisions based on what is best for the child, not the adults, so we’ll just have to be strong.”

Richie’s face lights up as Eddie’s words make their way through to him, and he turns in his seat to grab at Eddie’s hands. Eddie appreciates how the heat of California has bloomed more freckles across Richie’s face, little dots that still remain here in the chilly air of Maine. It’s a small detail that makes their life back home together feel closer now, helps to stave off that feeling they get in this state, that everything that exists outside it hasn’t really happened and that they’ll be swallowed up for good before they’re able to make it back out. The happiness shining from Richie in this moment is another. 

“Eds!” Richie says excitedly, “Are you taking me to see the puffins? Wait - are you taking me to see _Sweetheart?_ ”

Eddie keeps a secret little grin tucked away so that Richie has to wallow in anticipation just a little longer. “Maybe,” he says, “maybe not.”

Richie opens his mouth to speak again, but Eddie interrupts him. 

“Oh look,” he says, “We’re here.”

“We’re -” Richie starts, but stops dead as he looks out the window. Their car has stopped at the wharf down by the harbourfront, little fishing boats lined up and rocking gently in the water, buckets of clams and lobster lining the walkways.

“Thank you,” Eddie says to their driver, and opens the door to tug Richie out by the hand. Their car drives off, and Richie stands beside Eddie, looking around in bafflement at the dingy little dockyard in front of them. 

“Come on,” he says, and leads Richie toward one of the small fishing boats rocking rhythmically against the wood of the dock. Bent down to check the cleat hitches of the stern-line is a familiar face. 

“Hey!” he calls out, “What the fuck? You’re the woman from the gift shop, back in September!”

The woman stands up at this, turning around to greet them with a smile. “Hey there! Eddie, right? And Richie, of course. Little Sweetheart’s parents. I’m Mary.”

Richie beams at this designation, ever-proud of his role as father of Sweetheart the baby puffin, and Eddie reaches forward with the hand not holding Richie to shake the woman’s - Mary’s - outstretched one. He also reaches backwards into the back pocket of his jeans to grab his wallet out, and pass over a handful of bills. Richie raises his eyebrow at the exchange, but follows them dubiously onto the boat. 

“Oh god, you’ve taken me here to kill me, haven’t you?” Richie says, “I always knew it would happen in Maine. But I didn’t foresee you facilitating it, Mary, I’ll be honest.”

Mary laughs as she releases the lines keeping them tethered to the dock, but Eddie smacks him upside the head. “ _No_ , we’re not here to kill you, you moron.”

“Sure, sure,” Richie agrees peaceably, “But all I’m saying is that you’ve taken me to some shady little dock in backwoods Maine with no cash trail. I’ve seen enough true crime to know where this is leading, but it’s fine. You can kill me a bit; it’s how I want to go.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says, while Mary almost tumbles herself off of the boat laughing, “that’s appalling, actually, thanks Richie. You’re such a fucking romantic.”

“Nothing suspicious at all, actually!” Mary says happily, “I’m just the only one willing to take people out on weekends when the centre is closed. And I’d recommend you take a seat now, so we can be on our way.”

Eddie and Richie scrunch together on a little bench seat while Mary pushes them off, walking over to check on something at the stern before heading back to the steering wheel, and getting them on their way. Richie’s hand skims along the top of the water as they go, and Eddie’s head falls down to rest on his shoulder, eyes closed, trying to slow his heart rate as the moment draws nearer. It’s ridiculous, really - it’s nothing he hasn’t done before, and he already knows what Richie will say, but _still_. This time feels more important, somehow, more akin to that very first time at the restaurant under the twinkling lights. 

Twenty minutes later and the boat stutters to a halt, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and for no discernible reason. Richie looks up to see what the hold up is, and Eddie shares a look with Mary, nodding to let her know it’s time. 

“So, Richie,” Mary says carefully, and Richie turns to face her, confused at the tone. “As you probably know from the paperwork, your adopted puffin, Sweetheart, is one of our Atlantic rescue babies.”

Richie nods, glancing back and forth between Eddie and Mary, still trying to suss out where exactly they’re going with this, no puffin in sight. 

“And with our rescue program,” Mary continues, “part of the process is to rehabilitate them under our careful supervision, and when the time comes that we feel they are ready, to release them safely and responsibly back into the wild.” 

Richie nods even slower now, and Eddie’s heartbeat starts to gallop in his chest. 

“So we figured that given your generous donations to the program, and with you being Sweetheart’s parent, and all,” Mary says, eyes sparkling mischievously, “that _you_ might want to be the one to release her back into the ocean today.” 

Mary walks back toward the stern, and from behind the barrier picks up what looks like a cat carrier. Richie’s breath punches out of his throat, and flashing an open-mouthed look of shock at Eddie, tightens their entwined fingers almost painfully in his excitement at understanding. Or what he thinks he understands.

Mary walks the carrier cage over to Richie, and Eddie grins at his fiancé practically vibrating beside him. Richie only releases his hand when Mary gestures to show that he should open the carrier up. Eddie takes a deep breath in to prepare himself, and feels his whole body go all of a sudden completely calm. 

Richie’s hands are big but gentle, and when he reaches in, Sweetheart hops happily onto his hand, tiny little body cupped preciously into his hands. Richie’s eyes have a wet sheen to them, overwhelmed at this long-overdue meeting, and Eddie and Mary grin at each other, silently betting how long it will take him to notice.

The answer is actual _minutes._ Richie coos at her, bringing a finger up to softly stroke at her wings, and - as only Richie can - keeps up an entirely one-sided conversation with the bird, until a sudden turn of her head has him squinting at her 

“Wait a second,” Richie furrows his brow, bringing his face closer slowly so as not to startle her. Held in Sweetheart's beak is a small wooden circle, dark enough that it almost blends in with the black hue of her infant colouring. R+E is engraved carefully onto the side. “What’s -” 

“Oh Sweetheart, what have you got there?” Mary asks playfully, and Richie is so distracted by the mystery that he doesn’t seem to notice that her acting skills are not exactly up to par. 

“It’s - a ring?” Richie says, confused, and Eddie reaches over him to (after his own soft stroke to Sweetheart’s wing) gently extract the ring from her beak. Richie stares at him as he bends down, his attention extraordinarily enough pulled from Sweetheart to watch Eddie as he takes a deep breath in.

“So I know you’d probably prefer to have her as our flower girl or something,” Eddie says jokingly, shifting as he stares up into Richie’s eyes, “but I figured this was probably the next best thing, seeing as she's ready to go out into the wild now and everything. So, I uh - got Mike to send me some wood from the Kissing Bridge where you carved our initials. And I made this in the shop.”

“Eds,” Richie says bewildered, his voice thick and wet, “What are you- ” 

“I want you to know that none of this was ever a joke to me,” Eddie answers the cut off question, “and that it was never something I took lightly. When I asked you to marry me all those months ago, I was only doing something I should have done back when we were eighteen so that we never would have been parted in the first place. I want to marry you, Richie. I want to spend every second of my life with you, and if there’s something after that, I want that with you too. The others are wrong when they ask me how I put up with you. It’s the easiest thing in the whole world. The worst part of my life was every second you weren’t in it.” 

Richie is properly crying now, tears falling big and round down his cheeks. “Eds, I -”

“Hey Rich,” Eddie interrupts for the final time, helpless grin pulling at the sides of his mouth, “Marry me?” 

“Yes,” Richie answers before the final syllable is even out of Eddie’s mouth, “Yes, of course, _of course,_ you - oh my god I can’t kiss you, I have our fucking puffin child in my hands.” 

Richie looks helplessly between Eddie, knees cracking as he stands up straight again, to Sweetheart obliviously poking around his fingers, to Mary, silently laughing at them from the port side, her own eyes wet. She takes pity on them, walking over to them now, and after offering her congratulations, begins to demonstrate how they should release her. 

“Eds, come here, get a hand in here,” Richie demands, “I want both of us to do this together.” 

Eddie listens to him.

“So just cup her in your palms like this,” Mary shows them, “and just gently raise them up and out, and she should take the rest from there.” 

The two of them do as Mary has instructed (“Bye baby.” “It’s Sweetheart, actually,” “Oh my _god_ , it’s a fucking _phrase-_ ”) and watch as their baby puffin flaps her wings hectically aloft in the air, before landing safely down on the surface of the water. Richie and Eddie cheer her safe landing, and stand watching together with Mary as she drifts further and further away from them, eventually becoming just a small dot on the horizon line. 

It’s only then that Richie turns to Eddie, and cupping his face in his strong hands, presses their lips together, once, twice, three times. Mary claps them on the back, heading to the other end of the boat to offer them as much privacy as the vessel allows. 

This time, Richie kisses Eddie for far longer, their mouths moving together slowly and languidly, ending only when they’re both out of breath, and Richie bends down to press their foreheads together.

“Thank you, Eddie,” Richie says quietly, almost inaudible over the crashing waves around them. “For everything you’ve done. For everything you _do_. I notice all of it, and it means everything to me.”

“That’s my line, silly,” Eddie murmurs back, smiling up at his fiancé (his fiancé! his eight times fiancé. his.) and pressing up to kiss him again. When they part, he strokes one thumb down Richie's face, and Eddie pulls away to grab his hand and seat them both down on the bench once again. “Now come on. Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> this isn’t important but richie keeps every stupid object that eddie uses to propose to him and eventually mounts them all into a shadowbox with the dates he proposed written underneath them and puts it up in their house 😌


End file.
